American Horror Story - Season 1-5 E6 - Persistence of Memory
by leaftheweed
Summary: Episode 6: Memories can be a tricky thing, especially in Murder House. Just why was Addie outside the mansion in '78? What about the mysterious 4th Langdon child? Ben confronts Hayden. There are more dreams & nightmares for all, especially after Tate gets sent to juvenile hall in '93. Written in the style of the show for the avid fan, not the faint-of-heart. Features full cast.
1. Chapter 1 - Life & Death Situations

This is** Episode 6 **of American Horror Story season 1.5 - Murder House Revisited. If you haven't already, you should probably read the previous episodes or you may be confused. Check my Profile to find them.

* * *

**1976**

Constance and her 4-year-old daughter Adelaide were out on a drive around their new neighborhood when they saw the old mansion a couple of blocks up from where they had moved in. The blonde woman was extremely sensitive to spirits and to her the place was a strong magnet. She pulled the car up to the curb, shut it down and got out. She stepped up onto the sidewalk and stared at the overgrown Victorian house. She'd never wanted anything so badly. It was obviously vacant and uncared for so she decided to take a little tour of the grounds.

Constance let Addie out of the car and took her hand. The little girl looked at the house blankly, her curly-haired head tipped to one side.

"Mama. The house talks," she said.

"I know, sweetheart," smiled Constance. She was proud of her little girl. "I hear it too. Come on. Let's look around."

She led Addie up the front walk to the enclosed porch. Her free hand went to her collarbone; standing next to the place gave her an electric chill. She barely felt Addie's hand slip away from hers. The door opened silently, just enough to permit the child entry. While her mother was looking up in awe at the suspended lamp overhead, the little girl with Down Syndrome disappeared inside the house.

Constance noticed her missing seconds later. She glanced quickly about the yard but the open door said it all. She pushed it further open and stepped into the dark foyer.

"Addie!" She called into the abandoned house.

She thought she saw movement in the gloom back by the stairs and headed that way. The interior of the house smelled of dust and decay. Cobwebs tickled her cheeks and arms, giving her goose bumps. She tried to brush them away but there were more.

"Adelaide!" She was starting to get cross. "You come out right now!"

Behind the main stairs she found an door standing open. On the other side there was another flight of stairs, that one leading down into darkness. She heard something move down there. Nearing her patience's end, she started down the basement steps. Near the bottom of the stairs her foot slipped on the old wood and she sat down roughly, injuring her tailbone and her ankle.

The pain wasn't severe but it did hurt. Not only that but the heel on her pump had broken free of the sole. She had to find Addie in the huge, empty house with a shoe that didn't work. Frustration stacked on top of frustration. But the root of it was knowing her husband was off screwing the neighbor. While Constance was out chasing after one of his mongoloid offspring, he was out banging someone half his age and pretending to be free of responsibility.

She ripped the heel off the shoe and threw it down into the darkness. "Adelaide, you come out this instant!" she screamed. Tears ran down her cheeks.

Constance dropped the broken shoe and put her hands over her face and cried. She wept her broken heart out until she felt a hand on her shoulder. She lowered her hands, expecting to see Addie standing in front of her, but it was a strange man with dark hair. He wore outdated clothing and a mournful expression. He reminded her of Rhett Butler.

"It will be all right, darling," he said to her.

He put a hand out to her. It was a strange situation but Constance had seen many strange things over her lifetime. His attitude toward her was a refreshing intrigue compared to the sorrow she'd just been living. She took his hand.

"I know I failed with our son," he said to her as he helped her stand. He led her away from the stairs, one arm going around her waist to support her since she was missing a shoe. "But we can try again. We can... start over."

He led her to the back of the basement, into his little office and the couch there. She knew it was wrong to let him take her there, to undress and love her. But she was tired of being the only one upholding her marriage vows. The attention the mysterious stranger paid her felt so nice, so intoxicating, that she could let everything go for a little while.

She didn't care that he called her Nora. She didn't even care when she found the bullet hole in his head and realized he was dead. By that point they were making love and she refused to let anything spoil the only moment of pleasure she'd had in years.

**...**

**░A░m░e░r░i░c░a░n░ ░H░o░r░r░o░r░ ░S░t░o░r░y░**

**...**

**2018 **

Ben was still sleeping when Tate woke. The child-sized ghost thought about waking the therapist but decided to be nice and leave him be. So he went to find someone else to play with. He had to search as far as the kitchen. That's where he found both Chad and Patrick. Chad was cooking breakfast. Pat was poking around on a laptop at the center island. Neither man was paying attention to anything but what they were doing.

No one ever expected the zombie apocalypse.

Tate shuffled quietly up behind Patrick. He only growled when he was close enough to hop up onto the guy's back. Patrick wasn't prepared to have a child land on him but Tate had randomly attacked him more than once over the years so he recovered from the surprise quickly. He absorbed the impact and reached back to find Tate's hands.

"What are you doing?" he asked once he was sure the kid wasn't armed.

Chad looked over but he could tell at a glance that it was nothing that needed his personal attention. He wasn't going to ruin food without a good reason.

Tate had to think about Patrick's question before could answer. He also had to stop chewing on the man's t-shirt. "I'm a zombie," he said once he'd done both.

"You're a pest," corrected Pat. He went back to scrolling through the news.

Tate didn't think that was the right spirit to have in the face of the zombie apocalypse. So he bit Patrick's shoulder. Not super-hard. Just hard enough to get his attention. It worked, but not in a good way. Patrick yelped then he reached back and pulled the boy off his back. He dropped him on the floor. Tate looked up and found a whole lot of irritation glaring back down at him.

"I was just playing," he said, because it seemed like Patrick was taking things too seriously.

"It is _way_ too early for this shit," Chad interrupted impatiently. "Both of you go sit down at the table. I'll bring your plates. And for God's sake stay away from each other."

Pat shot Chad an offended look. While he was distracted Tate got to his feet and hurried out to the dining room. He thought maybe the other two would come along together in a bit but Patrick came in alone shortly after Tate sat down. He took the seat across the table from where Tate was and stared at him.

The boy looked back at him with wide-eyed wonder. "What?"

"I didn't say anything."

"No but you're looking at me funny," said Tate.

"I'm just looking at you," said Patrick.

They both knew that wasn't true, which bothered Tate. "Well, stop."

"No."

Chad came in then, skillfully balancing plates of omelets Florentine on his arms. He distributed them, putting his plate down last. Then he sat down and looked proudly around the table. The look melted when he saw the staring contest in progress. He rolled his eyes and picked up his fork.

"Good morning, Chad. Thank you for the _wonderful_ breakfast you worked so hard on," he said in a blend of bright and sarcastic. "Oh, you're welcome," he answered himself. "I do try."

Pat took the cue and picked up his fork but he kept eyeing Tate till the boy looked away in search of his own utensils.

"I had the coolest dream," Tate said as he hacked apart the neatly-folded omelet.

"Going out on a limb here," Chad said. "Could it have been about zombies?"

Tate smiled. "Yeah. I was one, only I was like... this super zombie. I could drive and everything. I had a rocket launcher."

Chad had no love of zombies but he couldn't help wondering about the logic behind a zombie with a rocket launcher. "What were you shooting at?"

"Evil super zombies."

Chad put his fork down and laced his fingers, elbows on the table. "Evil super zombies."

Tate nodded and carved the omelet to small, pointy shards. "Yeah. They looked kind of like the Hulk and Clayface put together and then ripped in two." He shoved egg in his mouth. "Only bloody."

"Add that to the list of things we don't discuss at meals," said Chad. He picked up his fork again.

"Dreams?" Tate asked, looking wounded.

"Zombies."

Patrick wiped his mouth. "Why'm I not surprised that Ben's dream therapy has Tate biting people?"

"Doctor Harmon didn't make me bite anybody," Tate defended. "I was just playing around. God."

"Playing around doesn't mean jumping on someone's back and taking a bite out of them," said Patrick. "I don't even know why I'm having to say that. You know that!"

Chad decided to keep eating and let them sort it out. He wanted to believe this wouldn't be the high point of his day but it was already off to a questionable start. So he wanted to squeeze what pleasure he could from his omelet while it was warm. He topped off his glass of white wine.

Tate made a face and glanced over at Chad but could tell there was no support for him in that corner. "I didn't bite you that hard," he said to Pat. "And it's not like you can't heal it."

"That's not the point," said Patrick.

"Want me to kiss it and make it better?" Tate grinned.

Patrick wasn't amused. "Knock it off. Just eat."

...

The Harmons only did breakfast - or any meal - together during holidays and special occasions. With Joshua to care for it just didn't make sense to go to that much trouble every day when no one actually needed to eat. Ben and his family didn't generally see one another until after noon. Once in a while they would do lunch or dinner if they all happened to be together and in the mood. Sometimes they dined with other ghosts in the house, either as a group or individually. But food had become a purely social thing for them.

It made it easy for Ben to avoid Vivien. He wasn't doing it intentionally but he spent more time in his office or the basement than he did with his wife and children. He had a lot to think about and he did that best alone. He had notes to write and ponder. He had to form a plan for the night. He didn't want to have another situation like the previous night happen again. Ever. He hated retreating from a dream. The more he thought about it, the more it bothered him.

He spent the day considering his options and poking around in Dr. Montgomery's personal library. There wasn't much help on the shelves that he found. While there were some books about the brain, they had to do with physiology, not intangible ideas like dreams. He was exploring territory few - if any - had seen, much less written about.

...

(( _Author suggests playing the Deadcom remix of 'Mad World' by Gary Jules for this section involving Violet._ ))

Violet spent the day in her room. She did that more often than not most days but she hadn't planned to do it while Billie Dean was in town. But she just couldn't get out of bed. Earlier that morning she'd been sitting in on an internet chat belonging to one of the support groups she was a member of.

It was a suicide chat room where people were supposed to help each other through low moments. Most of the time it was just where regulars hung out, caught up with each other and complained about life. That was the main reason Violet still visited it: Getting to talk to people who could tell her about life. That and the perverse amusement she got from being in an anti-suicide chat room after she'd successfully killed herself.

Within a couple of hours a recent addition to the chat family logged on. His screen name was GrimmReefer and he often talked about his heavy drug use when he was online. He would boast about how loaded he'd gotten the night before, along with detailed lists of the crazy things he claimed he was doing. Many dismissed him as a liar. Most old hats ignored him when he went off on one of those tangents, figuring he was trying to stir up drama. But there was always someone who'd argue with him that he couldn't possibly be that hard core.

That morning someone called him out on his claims. They didn't believe anything he said and wanted a screenshot before they would. They called him a drama-monger and a sock puppet so GrimmReefer had turned on his webcam. He showed the various implements of destruction he'd said he possessed: Mushrooms, pot, alcohol and pills, pills, pills.

He said he'd been taking the lot for over 20 minutes when Violet logged on. She got caught up quickly on the situation: Thanks to the up-to-the-second mentality of other chat users, there were already copies of the video on YouTube and transcript logs to share.

After she saw what all he had left, Violet joined the small camp of people who were trying to talk sense into him. Most of the other chat room occupants were egging him on by that point. One guy was even encouraging Grimm to kill himself. Another merely wanted him to black out, preferably where they could see it.

Violet was appalled at how ruthless the others were. She was used to the standard bullshit that went on, the idle cursing and crude jokes, but to encourage someone to kill themselves on camera... Human nature never ceased to astound her with how low it could sink. She tried Private Messaging GrimmReefer but he didn't answer. She wasn't sure if he was ignoring her or if he was just too wasted to notice it. His typing was getting kind of weird and on the webcam he seemed to be having trouble sitting up straight.

And still he kept popping pills and drinking. At one point he mentioned how his mother was in the next room. Someone else in the chat told him she wouldn't notice if he died. He agreed. The chat rolled by for a few more minutes but Violet couldn't bring herself to participate any longer. It was too futile and too depressing. Then Grimm posted his phone number and asked if anyone wanted to call him. The words were misspelled.

It was the last thing he typed.

He passed out in front of the webcam. Some people in the chat room posted cheers. A few encouraged each other to call 911 but no one did. One person tried Grimm's cell phone. The guy moved a little on camera, which got a few more text cheers. Someone flashed the chat room with the contact number for Poison Control. Someone else encouraged him to vomit up what he'd taken; another person told him to call the hospital. But since he was face-down on his desk he couldn't see anything.

Again the subject of 911 was brought up but the person asking was 'shouted' down by several other people. They started worrying that the chat logs would lead to their being arrested for mob rule-induced suicide if Grimm actually died. People started dropping offline. Violet stayed on for a while but only because she was too depressed to shut the laptop.

When she finally powered it down she was so despondent that she couldn't face the task of getting dressed. Going downstairs seemed impossible. Her parents would ask questions and she really didn't feel like talking to anyone, about anything.

What was the point of going downstairs anyway? She couldn't go out. There was nothing to do. No hope of change. It all seemed like a big joke with a rotten punch line. Migrating through life, slogging through school or work day after day, hoping there was something greater after all the bullshit in life had ended. Some great reward. This was it: Eternity in a depressing house with depressing parents and even more depressing ghosts as roommates.

She wondered numbly if GrimmReefer was truly gone or if he'd just condemned himself to an eternity of ODing in his bedroom.

After that she tried to kill herself. She executed a couple of different suicides but it was more like morbid role play than any serious attempt at self-destruction. She hung herself from her ceiling fan in a fit of film noir. Once she'd recovered from that and freed herself from the sheet noose, she tried slitting her wrists. That was a little more satisfying.

As she sat on the floor, slumped against her bed and bleeding out, she contemplated the tired achy feeling that constricted the heart she didn't have. She'd give anything to make that feeling go away. Sleep used to but not since the bad dreams had taken over. Before that there was Tate. But she didn't want to be the girl who loved a mass murderer, even if she already was deep down. A couple of tears trickled down her cheeks even though her expression stayed blank.

The world faded away for a little while. The blackness didn't last nearly long enough. When she came to, there was blood everywhere and the dull ache was still inside, untouched. She cried a little harder then. But that didn't help either. So she cleaned up the mess before Moira or her mother showed up. Then she went back to bed.

**...**

* * *

Author's note:

Here we are again. I did the math and at the rate I'm going, I'll be writing the 2-part Halloween episodes around the same time as real Halloween. Got to love that for inspiration. And speaking of inspiration, the title of this Episode is "Persistence of Memory". It's the Dali painting of the watches melting everywhere. If you look closely at the painting in my cover art, you'll find Rubber Man in among the clocks.

So Constance. Ever since I first watched the show, I always wondered about the intro of the pilot. There we have 6 year old Addie in a Sunday dress out in front of Murder House in 1978. It's obviously abandoned and run down. The twins run past her and tear it up. What the heck was she doing there? How did she know there were things inside it? What the..?

So I narrowed it down to Constance. She's the one who's always been obsessed with the house, even before her kids died. So it makes sense she'd be the one to take her kid there. But... why? Well. Now we know.

GrimmReefer was inspired by the real life story of Brandon Vedas (aka Ripper), who killed himself with drugs while people egged him on in an IRC chat. You can find logs online if you're morbidly curious but it's some pretty sad stuff.

Check out my Profile for my playlist. We're sliding back and forth all over the timeline again this episode. Hold on tight. We're taking some strange turns.


	2. Chapter 2 - Broken Hearts & Dreams

**1973**

Hugo wasn't allowed in the room while his first child was being delivered. He sat in the expectant fathers' waiting area watching late night television and smoking while Constance struggled in the stirrups to deliver his son.

The problems started immediately after he was delivered. She didn't get to hold him. Constance barely even got a glimpse of him before they whisked the silent baby away. All she saw was a flash of bluish-white skin and a very tiny body.

"Where are they taking him?" the young mother wanted to know. She was already very emotional from the experience of childbirth and had no desire to be separated from her baby so soon.

The delivering doctor glanced up from between her legs where he was suturing her episiotomy. "They're going to clean him up, Mrs. Langdon. You just relax. We'll have you back to your room in no time."

"I want my baby," she said. She didn't believe his patronizing words. "Bring me my baby!"

"Please, Mrs. Langdon," her obstetrician said, growing cross. "You'll tear your stitches. Calm down. You'll see your baby just as soon as he's had a bath and a diaper."

The nurse loomed close, looking ready to hold her down if necessary. Constance tried to relax.

They took her back to her room once she'd been cleaned up. She had help changing into some maternity pajamas she'd brought and Hugo was allowed to come in. But she still hadn't held her baby. The doctor came in shortly after her husband and sat down with them.

The baby had a hole in his heart, he told them. There was no time; there was nothing they could do. Even if they'd had consent to operate immediately he wouldn't have made it because his 4th heart chamber simply didn't exist. The doctor offered his condolences then left the young couple to come to terms with that themselves. They weren't leaving the hospital with a baby that day. The morgue would hold his body until funeral arrangements could be made.

They named him Byron Hugo Langdon, so they could put something on his headstone. "Baby Langdon" was too impersonal. The death certificate defined his cause of death as Ventricular Septal Defect but, in plain English, the baby died from a broken heart.

**...**

**2018 - 2nd night of dream therapy**

Chad sent Tate to go bathe mostly as a distraction while he stopped by the boy's room to pay Dr. Harmon a visit. He skipped small talk because he didn't trust how long Tate would spend visiting the soap and shampoo.

"Tate bit Patrick this morning," he said bluntly as soon as he sat down on the bed, near Ben's seat. "He said he had some sort of dream about being a zombie and he was just 'playing'." He framed that last words in finger quotations. "He's not going to be acting out _everything_ he dreams about, is he? That's not part of this therapy plan, is it?"

"No," said Ben, masking his surprise with a benign smile. "No, of course not. I'll talk with him about it when I see him this evening."

"We've already made it clear that's not something we're going to put up with," said Chad. "But it would be helpful if you'd reinforce it on your end. We really don't need him ambushing us like a rabid chimpanzee. He's bad enough when he's just trying to scare us."

"Scare you?"

"He hasn't done that to you? I'm shocked." Chad shook his head and rolled his eyes heavenward. "He loves sneaking up on us. He hides behind doors and in closets. Under beds. Behind the drapes. In the laundry basket. He even managed to hide in the bed once, _without_ turning invisible. He'll wait till you're least suspecting then he'll jump out at you or grab you."

"Have you told him to stop?" asked the therapist.

"Yes, I have," said Chad. "But he thinks it's funny. Up until today he hasn't hurt either of us doing it so we haven't strictly enforced it. But now he's biting."

"How bad a bite was it?"

Chad shrugged and his lips twisted down in a brief grimace. "Not very. I don't think it would have even bruised."

"How did Patrick handle it?"

"Well," hedged Chad. "I threw them both out of the kitchen. But he never tells him to stop being so physical. Patrick thinks men are supposed to rough-house." His expression made it clear he didn't feel the same way.

"There is a certain amount of physicality to the way many men bond," Ben said tactfully. "But biting definitely crosses the line."

Chad looked vindicated. "Make sure Tate understands that."

"I'll do what I can on my end," said Ben. "But Patrick needs to set boundaries as well. You'll have to tell him that. He... hasn't been speaking to me."

"I know," said Chad with another eye-roll. "He's been so touchy since the medication thing didn't go over as planned."

Ben made a small frown. "I still wish you'd reconsider-"

"No. Absolutely not," Chad said emphatically. "I'm giving him the ProSom _occasionally_ because I know it helps when he's having problems staying asleep. That's all. I've read all about those other sleep drugs and they're just as bad as that shit you prescribed. Some are worse. Besides, Patrick would never go for it. He'd have a canary if he found out I still had the ProSom around."

Ben looked at him, brows inching up.

Chad batted his eyes like a defense. "What they don't know hasn't hurt anyone. But don't you dare tell them, Ben Harmon, or I'll make you regret it."

Ben smiled mildly. "Don't worry. I never share anything anyone tells me in confidence."

Tate came in then, in child form, and with visibly damp hair that he'd bothered combing only because he knew Chad was going to be in there talking with Dr. Harmon. He jumped onto the bed, walked across it then flopped down onto a pillow. Then he wallowed about till he was roughly in a position a person could sleep in.

"All right," Chad said once the bed had stopped shaking. "I'll leave you boys to it." He tucked the blankets around the boy. "Pleasant dreams and all that."

Tate and Ben bid him goodnight. Once the door was shut Tate sat up and looked over at the therapist.

"Did he tell you about my cool dream?"

"Zombies?"

Tate nodded and bounced a little. "I was a super zombie. I had a rocket launcher and an AK47. I went around blowing up the bad zombies."

"Super zombie," said Dr. Harmon. "How do you mean?"

Tate shrugged and chewed on his cuticle. "You know. Like, I could drive and stuff. And shoot guns. I was totally invincible though. Kind of rotten too but that's okay because I was all buffed out and super fast. I was like a zombie, evolved. Better than the rest."

A few things clicked for Ben then and he smiled, feeling like he'd overlooked the obvious in the midst of the dream last night. "I see. Becoming a... super-zombie isn't an end then? It's a step up."

"Yeah," Tate smiled. "Evolution. Best of both worlds. Well, except the rotting part. But since everything was like that it didn't matter. I totally kicked ass."

Ben nodded and jotted something down on the notepad that was on the nightstand beside him. "Okay. So let's talk about this morning."

Tate made a face and pushed his blankets about. "Did Chad say something about breakfast?"

"I was talking about your leaving this morning."

"Oh."

"Did something happen at breakfast that Chad might want to tell me about?"

Tate fidgeted while he decided how he wanted to answer. "Maybe?"

"It's getting kind of late to be playing games, isn't it?" said Ben, leaning forward a little.

"Isn't that what you do at sleepovers? Play games?"

The doctor smiled dryly. "Not at this kind of sleepover."

Tate shrugged and picked at the edge of the blanket. "Well, I left because you were sleeping. I was being nice."

Ben nodded. "I appreciate that you didn't bite me first thing."

"He did say something." Tate scowled. "I knew it."

"You thought he wouldn't want to mention your biting Patrick?" asked Ben. He put his elbows on his knees and laced his fingers.

Tate really didn't know how to answer that question so he ignored it. "I was just playing."

The therapist nodded again. "He told me that too. Why did you bite Patrick?"

"I was just messing around," the boy said, looking martyred. Tears glimmered in his dark eyes. "I was being a zombie and he was being boring."

"You bit him because he wouldn't play along?"

Tate thought about it then shrugged. He felt picked on. A tear escaped. "I guess so."

"Do you think he was okay with that?" Ben pressed. He considered letting it go till morning but it was important.

"No," said Tate. He had to fight a smile remembering the moment. "He was pretty pissed off."

"But you seem to find it funny."

He swallowed the smile. "He doesn't really care."

Dr. Harmon found that hard to believe but he asked the obligatory follow-up question: "What makes you think that?"

"Because," shrugged Tate. "I don't know."

He pulled a long thread from the edge of the blanket and wound it around his finger. He decided he didn't really want to talk anymore. But he would have to work to extract himself if he wasn't going to call attention to the fact that he didn't want to talk about the subject. Which he had no patience for.

"Can we talk about this tomorrow?" he asked, making a face. "I'm tired."

"Sure, Tate," Ben said smoothly, jotting a few more things down. He knew he'd hit a nerve of some sort. Now that he knew where it was, he could wait to drill into the root. "Which brings me to something else. While we're doing lucid dream therapy, don't run off before I wake up. I'd like a chance to talk to you while your dreams are still fresh."

Tate tugged on his hair. "Oh. Well. You pretty much heard what I dreamed about last night."

"I know," said Ben. "But I'd like to talk to you before you run off for the morning starting tomorrow."

"Okay," said Tate. "But if I have to wake you up, you can't yell at me."

"Don't bite me," said the doctor. "And I won't yell."

"Okay," smiled Tate.

... ...

Ben entered the dream without detection, in observation mode rather than exerting control. He knew what he wanted to accomplish but he still had no real idea how to go about it. So he went in thinking to watch and perhaps learn something that would help direct him.

Tate was having a nightmare - a real one, not a film-quality zombie gore-fest. He was 7 years old and his mother's one-night-stand had decided to stay over for breakfast. There was little love lost between man and boy but the situation had gone from unpleasant to violent just before Ben made his entrance. The stout man had Tate by the arm and was trying to shove the boy's hand into the steaming hot cup of coffee on the table.

"You're too goddamned old to be sucking your thumb," the man said. His words were harsh and so was the expression he wore.

Tate squealed and tried to pull away but he couldn't. Ben expected Constance to come to the rescue but this was Tate's bad dream. Mama wouldn't be coming to save the day. The boy's cry turned to one of pain and Ben snapped. He was suddenly beside the man, grabbing him and punching him as hard as he could.

Coffee flew in an arc; it splattered the table and the seated man's lap. The guy let go of Tate, whose screams turned to sobs as he scurried away from the table. Ben kept punching the man till his anger burned low enough for him to realize the guy wasn't fighting back... or moving. Ben let him go and the man slumped to the floor, bleeding from his nose and one of his ears.

Tate was curled up in the corner near the cabinets. He held his injured hand close to his body while he cried. Ben was sure the loud sobbing would bring Constance but still she didn't come. Dream or no, Ben couldn't just stand by. He went over to the little boy and squatted down.

"I won't hurt you," said Ben gently. "I can help. If we put your hand under some cold water, I'm sure it will be fine."

Tate looked from him over to the still man on the floor and stopped bawling. Still sniffling, he reluctantly showed his injured hand. The skin was scalded bright red. Ben helped him get to his feet and led him over to the sink where he turned the cold water on. While he went through the motions of rinsing the burn, he tried to figure out what he was doing. He was getting caught up in Tate's psyche again, believing the dream a little too much. That wasn't supposed to happen.

He decided to assert some control over the dream. "Look, see?" he said, turning the water off. "Good as new."

And the hand was. Tate gave him a teary smile but the look was brief. "Mama's gonna be mad at you."

Ben glanced over at the man who had yet to move. He knew the man was dead. "I think mama's busy," he said. "Do you want to come over to my house to play while that guy there has a nap?"

Tate knew better than to go off with a stranger but Dr. Harmon wasn't a stranger. So the boy nodded and took the man's hand with his all-better one. "Can I see Violet?"

Ben gave him a mild smile. "Not yet."

They left the house only to return to it. But it had aged. When they went inside it had the Harmons' furniture in it instead of the Langdons'. Ben went to his office out of habit but when he sat down, he sat on the couch instead of in his office chair. Tate sat beside him. Then he rested his head against Ben's shoulder.

"I wish you were my dad," said Tate, not for the first time.

"You have two now," Ben reminded. He wasn't sure if he was trying to make Tate feel better or if he was just probing the boy's subconscious. "Chad and Patrick."

Tate gave a twitchy little shrug. "They're okay but you know how to be a dad better."

"Nah," said Ben. "I just know how to fake it better. Give 'em time."

Tate turned his head so he could look up at Ben's face. "Do you like me?"

"Sure I do," Ben answered. There was only one answer to a question like that, no matter how unexpected it was or how little he thought about the answer. Hesitation in itself could be an answer. "I wouldn't spend so much time with you if I didn't."

It was an answer that was easy to believe given how much recent time alone the doctor had given him. Tate moved Ben's arm, rearranging things so that he could sit under that arm. After a moment, Ben gave him a little squeeze. It was his secondary reaction; the first impulse had been to withdraw but he'd stopped himself. He knew now how to get where he needed to. It was just going to take a bit longer than he'd thought.

... ...

Ben was exhausted to the core by the time he got the rubber suit stashed in his bag. Several nights of exertion were taking its toll. He would have to take a break soon. But he had a clear course to follow now and he felt confident. He fell asleep quickly. He didn't dream.

* * *

Author's Note:

Ventrical Septal Defect still occurs in many infants and it still kills, though not like it did back in 1973. Now they can see the defect on ultrasound and perform in utero surgery to correct the hole or missing chamber. Recently a pediatric surgeon made the news after it was discovered over 50 of his unborn patients died due to his sloppy surgical procedures. He claimed it was just bad luck but the autopsies said otherwise.

So the next chapter's a little unusual. The whole chapter is just one day. It was a long day.


	3. Chapter 3 - A Long Day

**2018 (cont.)**

The next morning Tate was as good as his word; he woke Ben without biting. He just stood beside him and poked at his arm until the man opened his eyes. Once he was sure Ben was awake Tate smiled, all dimples.

"Hi," he said. "I don't remember what I dreamed last night. That's good, isn't it?"

Ben smudged the sleep from his eyes and sat up a little straighter. "Um. I... It's better than a bad dream, wouldn't you say?"

Tate's smile got bigger. "Yeah. That's what I'm thinking." The boy poked at Ben's arm some more. "You want to have breakfast? Chad sometimes cooks weird shit but it always tastes okay."

The offer was slightly tempting but Ben hesitated. He still wasn't fully awake so thinking took more effort than usual. "I don't think Patrick would appreciate seeing me first thing in the morning."

"Why?" asked Tate.

Ben squinted at him. It was too early to have to think so much. "He and I aren't exactly seeing eye to eye about your treatment."

"Oh," said Tate. "Yeah. He's been kind of a jerk about it. I don't know why."

"Has he?" prompted the doctor. "A jerk how?"

Tate shrugged and picked at his sleeve cuff. "Just kind of... weird. I don't think he wanted me to do the dream therapy. I don't think he trusts you."

That was no surprise to Ben. "Some people don't understand psychiatry, so they distrust the methods. I think it's a good sign that Patrick's showing resistance."

Tate peered at him. "You do?"

Ben nodded. "Both Chad and Patrick are interested in your therapy. They don't _agree_ on it but both of them care about it - one way or the other."

Tate made a funny face then, catching the inference. "Oh. I... guess you're right. I don't know."

"I know I'm right," said the therapist confidently. "But it doesn't change the fact that if I show up at your family breakfast table, all hell might break loose."

Tate dimpled another smile. "It would be different than the last eight breakfasts."

Ben gave a short laugh. "I'm not starting trouble just to relieve your boredom."

"Oh, come on, Doctor Harmon," Tate said. "I know you're dying to see what life's like under the gay dome."

"Tate," Ben said disapprovingly.

"Come on," wheedled the boy. "It's just breakfast. If Pat freaks, you can always just leave. Or he can. He might. He does that sometimes."

"I don't think it's a good idea," said Ben but he was caving.

Tate knew it too. "It's a great idea. You can see for yourself if this family plan's working like you thought it should. And it's free food. Come on. You know you want to."

Ben shook his head and smiled. "All right. But I don't think this will end well."

So they each got dressed, Ben in the bathroom and Tate in his bedroom and they rejoined in the hall. Tate paused by the hall mirror to fix his hair then they went downstairs to the kitchen together. Chad was still working on breakfast. He was the only one in the kitchen.

"Doctor Harmon's having breakfast with us," Tate announced.

Chad glanced over, took stock of the pair, then went back to what he was doing. "I can manage it this time but in the future I need more than a few minutes' notice if we're having additional plates. I'm good but I'm not God."

"If it's any trouble, I don't-" Ben started.

"I _said_ I can manage," Chad cut him off irritably. "If you're not going to help, please go into the dining room. I've got my hands full."

Ben shut his mouth and glanced at Tate who grinned and gave him two thumbs up. "We're going," the boy said for Chad's benefit then he headed for the other room.

The therapist followed Tate into the dining room. "Is he always so cheerful?"

"Some mornings he's grumpy," Tate answered. He climbed into a chair next to the head of the table. "Seriously. That was him being nice."

"So you guys do breakfast every day?" Ben asked as he took the chair beside Tate's

The boy shrugged folded his arms on the edge of the table. "Most days. Not near Halloween."

"Ah." Ben nodded slowly. "Do you have every meal?"

"Not lunch so much," said Tate. "By then Chad's usually doing stuff. Fixing things, whatever. But we usually do dinner. Do you want to have dinner with us?"

"Not without reservations," said Ben with a small smile.

Patrick came in then and, seeing Ben, stared at him hard. "There a reason you're here?"

"It's breakfast," said Tate quickly. "We're going to eat. Together."

Pat shifted his attention to the boy. His expression didn't soften any. "Uh-huh. Did you ask Chad?"

Tate nodded and showed his most earnest expression. "He said it was okay."

That wasn't exactly the conversation Ben remembered but it was close enough that he wasn't going to debate it. "He said it wasn't an imposition," he added. "I wanted to discuss Tate's treatment so... this seemed like a good time."

Patrick's stare was on Ben again. "Right." He went and sat down in the chair across from Tate. He kept eyeing Ben. "What about his treatment?"

"I'd rather wait till Chad's here," the doctor smiled mildly.

"Uh-huh." Pat folded his arms and settled back in his chair. He kept watching Ben.

Ben found the attention both amusing and abrasive. He looked at Tate. "So aside from Halloween, things are pretty routine?"

Tate gave a little shrug. "Yeah. Most of the time. Pretty much all of Halloween month's kind of thrown off. Chad has specific days we have to do shit but lots of times we're out of the house."

"I don't stay around here much either," Ben said. "I can do that any time."

Chad came in then with a couple of platters of potatoes O'Brien and eggs. "Tate, go get the bread plate," he said.

"You didn't make that weird sausage bread again, did you?" the boy asked as he got up.

"That's a dinner food," said Chad stiffly. "Go get the bread. It's on the counter."

Tate grinned and left the dining room. Chad set his platters down. "I'll be back with another place setting. I'd have had one out already if _someone_ had bothered to tell me beforehand that we were going to have company for breakfast."

Ben took a breath to offer to leave again but realized it was pointless. Chad would rather act put-upon than have him leave. Patrick was still staring at Ben. Fortunately Tate returned as Chad was leaving so Ben didn't have to spend any time with the other man alone.

"I don't know why he's calling this a bread plate," said Tate. "It's only got crescent rolls on it."

"Those are croissants, you little barbarian," Chad corrected as they passed. "I'm calling it a bread plate because it's a plate with bread on it."

Tate set the dish down on the table and slid into his chair with a grin. "Yeah, I guess 'crescent plate' would sound pretty dumb."

"_Croissant_," Chad said again.

"Stop it, Tate," said Patrick. Normally he wouldn't get involved in such a petty difference of opinions but he was feeling particularly testy that morning. He didn't want to hear pointless bickering on top of everything.

Ben found the whole thing fascinating. His inner sociologist learned a lot from the short time he spent at the breakfast table. He could tell from the way they interacted that they had indeed done this quite a bit. He also knew Tate well enough to know the boy was taking full advantage of Ben's presence and was using it to antagonize his foster dads.

When the meal was wrapping up Ben figured it was a good time to get down to business. He put his flat-wear on his plate and pushed it aside. "If you don't mind I'd like to talk a bit about Tate's therapy."

He mostly said that for Patrick's benefit because he knew the man was at odds with everyone else regarding the matter. He would be the only one who might object to the subject. But the therapist's quizzical look in the bigger man's direction was met with a 'go ahead' look that bordered on a dare.

"We've been trying lucid dreaming," Dr. Harmon said. He folded his hands on the table. "And I'd say we've had... mixed results. Overall I think it went well," he added quickly because he could see Tate was getting ready to protest. "But I underestimated how long it's going to take."

Patrick rolled his head to the side and made a derisive sound. "Here it comes," he muttered, folding his arms.

Ben ignored his reaction and looked at Chad. "I think the best course is to continue the therapy but scale it back to once a week. Maybe... start doing it after Tate's regular weekly session?"

Tate watched the people who were deciding his future. It didn't seem at all strange to him; he'd been told what to do all his life - and death. He found Patrick's barely-contained hostility toward Ben more peculiar.

Chad glanced at Patrick before saying anything but his significant other just stared at him. So Chad said to Ben, "Sounds fine with me. Tate?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you all right with that?" said Chad, trying to be patient.

Tate pulled his legs up into his seat. He looked over at Patrick but the man was still staring at Chad. Tate shrugged. "Yeah. I don't care. Whatever."

That's when Pat looked over at him and Tate knew at a glance that wasn't the answer he was supposed to give. Tate also knew with that glance what he was supposed to say but he wasn't going to say it. He knew the dream therapy was helping. He didn't want to stop.

"All right then," said Ben. He could feel the tension as well as everyone else and decided it would be a good time to end his visit. "Well. Thank you for the food, Chad. It was very good."

Chad put on his host smile. "You're welcome, Ben. Just drop your dishes in the sink. It'll give Moira something to do later."

Ben smiled and got up. "Tate, I'll see you at the regular time this week." He picked up his dishes and nodded to Patrick, who ignored him. "Have a good morning, everyone."

With that he left. Silence followed, broken when Patrick finally said, "Don't do that again."

Both Chad and Tate looked momentarily guilty. Chad lost the look the quickest, which was just as well since Pat was addressing Tate.

"Do what?" the boy asked.

Patrick wasn't in the mood for games. "You know what. A: You don't just invite someone to breakfast without asking in advance, and B: You don't invite _him_ to anything."

Chad rolled his eyes and started gathering up dishes. He didn't get up yet.

"What's your problem with him anyway?" Tate wanted to know. Just asking the question put him on the verge of tears, which annoyed him. It would be nice to have just one heated conversation without crying like a girl. "He just wants to help me."

"No. He doesn't," said Patrick. "He's using you like a Guinea pig. You're nothing but an experiment to him."

Chad shot Patrick a pointed look, trying to warn him away from any topics Chad might regret.

"You don't know Doctor Harmon," said Tate. He blinked and tears fell. He batted them away. He was too confused by Patrick's attitude to know how to react to it. "Just because we're doing some experimental therapy doesn't mean he's some sort of weird mad doctor or anything."

Patrick ignored Chad. "I know you don't believe it but he's _not_ your friend. He doesn't want to help you."

"That's not true! He's always been there for me. Always. Even after everything. He never told me to go away."

Chad decided it would be better for his nerves if he weren't in the room at all. He picked up the stack of dishes and quietly carried them into the kitchen.

"Of course he wouldn't tell you to go away," said Patrick, folding his arms. "He can't experiment on you if he can't get to you."

"I'm not a fucking rabbit!" Tate exploded. "You don't know him!"

They glared at each other from across the table. Pat wanted to tell the kid that he couldn't have anything more to do with Ben Harmon. But he knew he couldn't make that stick. He shoved his chair back roughly and stood up. "Do what you want. But when you get screwed - and you will get screwed - don't whine at me about it!"

He stalked out of the room, elbowing the door out of the way hard enough to make it bounce off the wall. Tate had seen him leave turbulently before but it had always been Chad on the other end of the situation. Suddenly finding himself in the same position was strange and upsetting for Tate. He felt like he'd done something wrong but he knew he hadn't. At least he thought he hadn't. He wasn't so sure anymore. Tears flowed down his cheeks and soaked the neckline of his pullover.

"That hissy fit's nothing to cry over," said Chad. "Wait until he _really_ wants to let you to know what he's thinking."

Tate hadn't realized Chad had returned but he had. He pulled the boy's chair out. Tate slid to his feet since that seemed to be what Chad wanted him to do. Sure enough, the dark-haired man took him by the hand and led him away from the table.

"Why's he being like that?" asked Tate, voice thick with crying.

Chad made himself reflect on that question three times before letting himself answer, for everyone's sake. "He thinks he's protecting you."

Tate looked at Chad like he was crazy. "By yelling at me?"

"It comes with having the emotional range of a caveman," the dark-haired man explained as he led the way to the hall. "_Some_ gay men are sensitive and more in touch with their emotions. Others, like Patrick, march the exact opposite direction down the evolutionary ladder."

"Where are we going?" asked Tate when he realized they were heading upstairs. He rubbed the sleeve of his free hand on his face.

"Well, when Patrick and I have a disagreement," Chad said. "I like to brush it off by watching a favorite movie of mine. I usually watch something like _The Birdcage_... But I'll let you pick the movie this time."

Tate thought about that as they headed for Chad's room. "If they have it online can we watch _Lord of the Flies_?"

Chad side-longed a flat look at the boy. "You would pick that. Original or remake?"

"Remake," said Tate. "It's better."

"You're only saying that because the blood isn't in black and white."

...

Chad and Tate watched young men run amok in William Golding's classic, most of it through which the boy used Chad's lap as a pillow. By the end Tate was feeling a bit better. There was nothing like watching a bunch of kids burn down an island trying to kill each other to improve his mood. After the movie Chad wanted very much to watch something less disturbing so they put on _The Producers. _After that Tate insisted that the references to little old lady sex made it necessary for Chad to sit through _Grandma's Boy. _After that their movie selections became a showdown of movie torture. Chad quit after Tate's last choice, _Dale and Tucker vs. Evil_, and went to make dinner.

Patrick surfaced for the evening meal but nobody said much of anything. Afterward he disappeared again while Tate was helping Chad clean up. Ill at ease, the boy kept close Chad the rest of the evening because he didn't want to be alone. He even asked for a story at bedtime just to forestall being alone a few minutes longer. Inevitably the lights went out, though, and he was by himself.

Tate couldn't sleep. First he was distracted by a metal hook that was in the wall above the headboard. It was a blunt-ended thing similar to what his mother used to hang potted plants from, only those hooks were in the ceiling, not the wall. It was unusual because it hadn't been there last night. Things like that were always appearing around the house, thanks to Chad's constant urge to improve the place.

He hoped Chad wasn't going to hang a potted plant there. It would be disturbing to sleep under. He considered the nastiness of being wakened by a fern falling on his head. When the novelty of the hook wore off he had nothing to distract him. Confusion and self-doubt edged in. He hated it when people he knew were upset with him. He was never sure if they were right to be. He wasn't sure now.

After he got tired of wiping away stray tears he got out of bed and let himself out of his room. He didn't get up very often at night. The hall was pitch black and felt worse than deserted. He could almost feel the darkness. He didn't like it and he didn't trust what hid in it. He darted down the hall to Patrick's door and pushed it open a little. As soon as he saw light he went all the way in and shut the door on the dark hallway.

Pat was in bed, propped on a small hill of crushed pillows. He looked up from the magazine he'd been reading and raised his brows. Tate moved closer.

"Are you mad at me?" he asked with a pout, stopping a few feet away. Tears welled up as he braced himself for the answer.

"No," Patrick said hesitantly. "I just think you're making a huge mistake trusting Ben."

"You act like you're mad at me."

Patrick looked at him for a long moment. He was too used to arguing with Chad. They usually didn't speak for hours after a blow-up. It allowed them both time to shake it off and put their make-believe acts back together. Tate's blunt, child-like need for reassurance was something Pat wasn't prepared for.

"I'm not mad," he said. "I'm just..." He searched for the right word. "Frustrated. You're going to get burned by him. I guarantee it."

Tears slid down Tate's cheeks. "Why?"

"Because he's a crappy therapist," Patrick said. He was starting to feel kind of crappy himself.

"Because he made us be a family?"

"He didn't make us be a family. That has nothing to do with-" He floundered. "God. Come over here."

He put the magazine down on the bedside table and, when the boy got close enough, he lifted him up and put him down sideways in his lap so they could see each other. Tate sniffled wetly.

"I think he's a crappy therapist because he's made some suggestions for your 'treatment' that are idiotic," Pat said. "Like getting you to take pills without you knowing about it."

Tate looked at him, brows knitting. "Why would-" His confusion lasted less time than it took to finish the sentence. Why? Because Tate wouldn't do it willingly, of course. "You said no, though. Right?" His rising panic could be heard in his words as well as seen on his face.

It was a split-second decision Patrick had to make. "I said no," he agreed. He would probably regret the half-truth at some future point but he was _not_ going to field a melt-down that should, by all rights, be Chad's to deal with. "But you should know that's the sort of person Ben is."

Tate leaned against Pat's chest, reassured but still unhappy. "That's pretty fucked up. Fucker. He would do something like that. He's been wanting to drug me up forever."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Pretty much since I first started seeing him," Tate said, shifting so he could look up at Pat's face. "Back when they moved in. He gave my mom some shit to give me. I didn't take it though. I don't know what his thing is with pills. I used to think maybe he was getting kick-backs from the pharma-corps... but I guess not."

Patrick put an arm around the boy. "Whatever his reasons, I don't like the way he does things. It's your choice if you want to risk trusting a guy who'd ask us to do something like that but it seems pretty dumb to me."

"I didn't know he did that," Tate defended, his expression clouding.

"Well, you know now," said Pat. "You might want to think about it before you do dream therapy with him again. Ask yourself if you really want someone like that around while you're sleeping."

It was a valid point but Tate didn't want to think anymore. He was tired. He was confused. He was upset. Thinking could wait.

"Can I sleep in here tonight?" he asked.

"Can you sleep without the closet light on?" asked Patrick.

Tate thought about it. He didn't like sleeping in complete dark but he liked sleeping by himself after fights a lot less.

"Yeah."

**...**

* * *

Author's Note:

So yeah. That was a really long day. It's interesting how important little things become when your whole world is a single house. This is the longest chapter in the episode. Possibly the longest in the series. I just couldn't chop it up.

_Dale and Tucker vs. Evil_ is probably one of the funniest tongue-in-cheek horror films I've seen in a while. Only _Cabin in the Woods _beats it.

Next chapter: Michael goes to a real park! And Ben sees Hayden at last...


	4. Chapter 4 - Dirty Little Secrets

**2016**

The weather was just beginning to warm up. Michael was 5 years old and enjoying his first picnic at the park. It wasn't a playground park; it was a new park to him. It had a big duck pond and pavilions with barbecue grills. Mama Constance had packed a basket of food, none of which needed grilling. She and Father Jeremiah had set everything up and Michael had helped. He put the whole checkered tablecloth on by himself.

They had a nice meal in the shade. Michael noticed there were a lot of bugs under the pavilion: Ants and flies and some beetles and even a couple of bees near the trash can. After they ate they went for a walk around the pond. There were lots of tall reeds and grass and there were scores of ducks and even geese swimming in the water. They flocked toward the three people.

"Why are the duckies coming this way?" Michael asked.

Constance looked over, interrupting her conversation with the priest to explain. "They're hopin' for hand-out. Some people feed them bread, even though there're signs everywhere forbiddin' it."

Michael showed his empty hands to the water fowl. "I don't have any bread."

Of course the birds didn't listen. They just sailed in close and kept pace with the group while they walked. The grown-ups kept talking but Michael watched the birds. He was delighted by the smooth way they glided over the surface of the dark water. He was walking for a long time before he realized he couldn't see Mama Constance or Father Jeremiah.

He stopped and looked around but he didn't see anybody nearby. Just grass and reeds and birds. One of the geese got tired of waiting for bread and clambered up onto the marshy shore. Out of the water it was as tall as Michael. He took a few steps back. The goose took it as a hostile act and spread its wings wide.

To the little boy the animal was gigantic. The thing gave a surly honk and flapped at him, making a slapping, rattling noise with its wings.

"You're a bad bird!" Michael shouted at it.

It honked back at him; it understood aggression. It snaked its head in and snapped at the child's face. That made Michael really mad. He grabbed the bird by the neck with both hands and pulled in two different directions at once.

The goose flapped some more but it was fighting for its life now. A couple more seconds of pressure and its neck broke in three places. It sagged to the ground, twitching spastically before laying still. Michael let go of it. He was still mad so he kicked it a couple of times. The other birds swam away, wanting no part of the violent scene.

"Birdie," a little voice said from nearby. "Birdie sleep."

Michael looked around and saw another child, perhaps 3 years old, standing nearby. A little boy, judging from the blue overalls and dinosaur Crocs. The little boy had brown hair and a puzzled look on his face.

"Want to pet him?" Michael asked.

The little boy smiled and toddled closer. He bent over in an exaggerated way and put a hand out to smack the dead goose.

"Birdie!"

Michael smiled. The he took the little boy's other hand. "Come on."

The boy let Michael lead him away from the bird, closer to the water, where the grass was tallest.

"Look," said Michael. He pointed at all the ducks and geese that were still swimming. Some started swimming toward them, already having forgotten the death of their flock-mate. "More birdies."

The little boy squealed with delight and tried to clap his hands but missed more than he hit. "Birdies!"

While he was distracted, Michael took hold of the suspenders of the little boy's overalls. Then he shoved the boy face-down in the water. The little boy kicked and bubbles came up all around his head. He splashed his arms a lot. The water birds swam away again. Michael held the boy under water until he stopped splashing and kicking. Then he let go.

The little boy didn't move. He wouldn't tell on Michael now.

"Michael!"

He could hear Mama Constance calling in the distance, past a nearby hill. He oriented on her voice and ran that way so she wouldn't find the bird or the little boy.

When he got to her, she scolded him for running off and just like that the trip to the park was finished. Michael cried. He didn't want to go yet. Absorbed with their own drama as they were leaving, the three didn't notice a young mother frantically calling for a lost baby she'd never see alive again.

**...**

**2018**

When Vivien got out of the shower she wrapped a towel around her head and another around her body. Then she stepped out of the bathroom into the master bedroom where she was surprised to see Ben stretched out on the bed in his pajamas, looking through one of his spiral notebooks.

"So you're done with... whatever it was you were doing?" she asked. The corners of her mouth tugged down.

Ben looked up from his notes. He knew by her tone and the look on her face that this wasn't a conversation he was going to enjoy having.

"More or less," he said. He decided to take the optimistic approach and keep his mood light. Maybe it would help. "We're still going to do dream therapy but we're doing it the same night as his regular session."

She nodded slowly and turned away from him, toward the dresser. She pulled the towel off her head. Damp brown hair fell over her bare shoulders.

"I've been thinking," she said. She pulled open the dresser drawer slowly. Everything was cautiously slow for her at that moment. She wanted to be sure of her every move. "Maybe we should do like Chad and Patrick."

He didn't follow her logic. "What, go antiquing together?"

She didn't laugh. Or even turn around. She got out a nightgown, still with careful deliberateness. "Have separate rooms."

The silence hung heavy in the room for several long moments. She put her nightgown on. He stared at her.

"Separate rooms," he said at last. His voice was strained.

She finally turned around to look at him. Her expression was weary, depressed. "I think it would be best."

"Well, I don't," objected Ben.

Vivien had hoped he'd make this easy. "Ben-"

He dropped the notepad on the bed and got up. "No! I'm not going to be punished over a night you can't even remember!"

She wouldn't have looked more hurt if he'd hit her.

"You said you were taking those pills when it happened," he said, corralling his anger. "You said you thought it was me. So I'm guessing that whatever happened wasn't all that traumatic."

She blinked a few times, unable to speak. He was shrinking her and she was too upset to fight back. Tears fell and she wiped them away quickly.

"Did he hurt you?"

She didn't answer.

"Did he hurt you, Vivien?"

She folded her arms under her breasts. Her stomach felt like she'd swallowed a rock. "No. Not directly."

"Did he force you to have sex with him?"

Vivien looked at the floor, uncomfortable even hearing mention of the act. It took her a while to answer but she didn't want to hear him repeat himself again. "No." She made herself lift her head but she couldn't quite look at him. She looked at the bed instead.

"So, essentially," said Ben. "You were on drugs that had a bad effect on you. You thought this other guy - some teenager - was me and you had sex with him." He let that sentence hang for maximum impact. "You expected this emotionally traumatized kid to know you weren't in your right mind when you pulled him into our bed with you... and you want to punish _me_ for it?"

Her eyes were on the floor again. Her memory was clicking on and off in a strobe-light effect, flashing through moments of the night in question. Images of Ben, of a black rubber hood, of intense pleasure. She shut her eyes tight but more tears escaped. What he was saying was starting to mesh with what she remembered. Sitting in the chair, putting on lotion. Ben came in wearing the suit. It wasn't Ben. But she thought it was. She thought it was when she reached for him.

She put her hands over her face and started to cry in earnest. Ben smiled a small, mean, smug smile.

"You know what, Vivien?" he said, grabbing his notepad. "I changed my mind. You're right. We should have separate rooms for a while. I don't think I want to share a bed with you right now."

He took his robe and left the room then. She sank to her knees and cried, long and hard.

...

Ben stopped by the linen closet and grabbed a couple of blankets and a spare pillow and took them down to his office. He dropped them on the couch and went over to his desk where he sank into the rolling office chair. He dug around in his desk drawer and found his cigarettes and lighter. He lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair. Once he'd finished and put the butt out in the small glass ashtray he turned a little in his chair so he could better see the room.

"Hayden," he said.

"You know I love it when you say my name."

She appeared near the shut door that led to the hall. She looked nice. Better than the last time he remembered seeing her. She was wearing an off-the-shoulder over-sized gray t-shirt and black leggings, ballet flats. She looked a lot like she used to when she was taking his college course except that she wore her makeup darker now. The corners of Ben's mouth twitched in a hint of a smile.

"What are you doing, Hayden?"

She looked surprised. "You called me."

"You know what I mean," he said. "The baby."

She smiled and a hungry look lit her dark eyes. "You mean _our_ baby."

"I mean that thing you left in here," he corrected. "What the hell was it?"

She frowned, offended. "She's not a thing." She moved closer to his desk. "She's our baby."

"I don't know what that was," said Ben. "But it's nothing of mine. What were you thinking, putting it in here?"

Her frown darkened. She was beginning to get mad. "Her name is Shelly!" she said loudly. She was right in front of his desk now. She put her hands on it and leaned over it like she might climb on top of it. "I thought you might want to see the baby you helped make, Ben! You know. The one you wanted to _kill_?"

He stood up quickly; the office chair rolled back a short distance. "It was your decision too!"

Hayden folded her arms and smirked at him. "I decided I wanted to keep her," she said. The smile disappeared. "She's _real_, Ben. Whether you like it or not. She's real and she grows." Her eyes lit again with that half-starved, feral look of delight. "Can your precious Vivien's baby do that?"

"He's my son too," Ben said.

"And Shelly's your daughter."

Ben shook his head. "Ghosts can't have babies."

"Yeah?" Hayden tipped her head. "Your favorite nutcase Tate did."

Ben couldn't argue that point. But he was still fairly certain it didn't work the other way around. "She's not my baby."

"Why did you call me here, Ben?" Hayden snapped. "So you can trample my feelings and treat me like shit again? Thanks but I had enough of that before."

"I just-" he started. He sighed and the tension left him as dejection set in. He leaned on the desk, his head bowed. "I wanted to apologize."

She folded her arms looked at him like he was crazy. "That's how you start? By insulting me and our baby?"

He looked at her then. "You're right. That wasn't a very good way to start."

"No shit," said Hayden with a nod. She looked somewhat satisfied but confused as well.

He came around the desk and waved her over to the couch where he had a seat. She hesitated noticeably before reluctantly moving to join him. She kept her arms folded and sat down on the far end of the couch.

"I'm sorry, Hayden," he said, blue eyes meeting hers sincerely. "For everything I put you through. I had no right to ask you to have an abortion."

"What about burying us in the yard?" she demanded. "And the gazebo? Was that your idea of a monument to your dead secret family?"

He winced. He knew he deserved that. "I'm sorry, Hayden. I didn't know what else to do. Moira was drugging me and the house was making me crazy."

Hayden was unmoved. "Did the house tell you to build a gazebo?"

"No. Larry did that."

She rolled her eyes and hissed a sigh. "That fucking hunchback. I wish he was dead so I could make his life hell." She focused on Ben again. "You say you're sorry?"

He nodded, looking sincere.

"Prove it."

He lifted a hand. "How?"

Her lips curled in a small, tight smile. "Come meet your daughter."

**...**

* * *

Author's Note:

It was during this chapter that I discovered I complain out loud at characters who are doing things I don't approve of while I'm writing about it. I apparently told Ben he was an arrogant asshole at the time of writing this chapter, but this is only what I've heard from the people I live with. I don't actually remember doing that. But I argue with everything, from traffic to commercials, so I'd believe it. They knew who I was writing about, which says something considering they don't even read this fic.

So. Sorry about all that. Next chapter's got some motherly love to make up for it.

If you haven't, check out my Profile for some music suggestions.


	5. Chapter 5 - Humble Beginnings

**1977**

After the disappointing births of Byron, Beauregard, and Adelaide, Constance had every right to expect another tragedy when her fourth child came into the world. But when the doctor handed her the baby after delivery, she was astounded. Breathless. He was perfect. He stopped crying the moment he was put in her arms. She stroked his soft cheek and kissed his tiny forehead. His fair hair was so pale it looked virtually invisible.

"What are you going to name him?" a nurse asked her with a smile.

Constance had returned to Murder House a few times during the course of her pregnancy. The further along in her pregnancy she'd gotten, the more urgent her need to be there had felt. She had tried to initiate a move to the house but those things took time, especially since they already owned a house they would have to sell before they could go anywhere. She visited the house instead, as often as she could. More than once during those visits Charles had told her they were going to call the baby 'Thaddeus'. Looking at the precious newborn angel in her arms, Constance couldn't bring herself to give him such a weighty, outdated name. She liked fancy names but that was just too much.

"Tate," she said. She beamed at the nurse, satisfied with the trimmed version of the name. "His name is Tate."

...

After they'd been sent home, Constance wanted to take her son back to the old Victorian. But by the time she had recovered enough to consider taking on the effort of stairs, two local boys had been found dead in the house, mauled by some wild animal. After that the old mansion was locked up tight and put on close watch by the police, just in case.

In order to get back into the house, she would have to own it. It would take her nearly seven years, but she would eventually own Murder House. And it would own her.

**...**

**2018**

... ...

Jeremiah knelt before the altar, his eyes focused on the concrete floor. It was his 18th birthday. He'd lived his whole life inside the compound and most of it was spent without seeing girls of his age. He would see one that night. It was technically his wedding night. But he wouldn't wear a ring and, after a month in seclusion with her after the ceremony, it would be years before he saw her again - if ever. The union simply served the purpose of trying to replenish the stock before he left on his Mission. The girl would be jointly married to a much older man who had returned to the compound and they would raise the child together, just as Jeremiah had been raised.

Yet despite years of foreknowledge, Jeremiah wasn't prepared for marriage. He'd never been more nervous. He felt sick with performance anxiety. But he knew he had an obligation to the congregation and to the patron the order served. He wondered if his bride was feeling the same way over in the ladies' portion of the compound. He imagined she did and latched onto that sense of unity.

The door behind him opened, interrupting his solitude. His stomach flipped over.

"They're ready for you, Jeremiah," Father Stephanas said.

The rotund man stood to the side and gestured for the young man to step out into the central courtyard. Father Stephanas smiled but the way the sunlight threw shadows over his face, it looked more like a leer. Jeremiah got to his feet and joined his elder in the doorway. The younger man smoothed his ceremonial robe before stepping outside.

At one end of the large common area several chairs had been set up and a wedding altar had been erected on a temporary dais before them. The ladies had decorated the aisles with ribbons and a hand-woven central runner rug with intricate Celtic knotwork that formed a dragon. Its tail was curled at one end and the toothsome head was near the dais.

The whole congregation should have been there already but the whole place was empty. It was getting dark fast. Jeremiah looked up and saw black clouds rushing in, walling out the summer sky. The wind picked up and swirled around the central courtyard in an audible whistle. A massive storm was rolling in fast.

Jeremiah looked back toward the ceremonial stage and was surprised to see that the decorations had all deteriorated. The flowers were dry and dead. The ribbons were yellowed and falling apart. Entropy had eaten everything in the center and it was spreading to the surrounding buildings that made up the compound. The young man could feel a presence; something he'd never felt before and yet seemed somehow familiar. He put a hand to his chest and felt for the pendant he'd worn since birth. It was cold, inert. It offered none of the usual comfort it did when he touched it.

Thunder rumbled overhead, heralding the fall of a cold rain. It fell in large drops that sizzled on the ground, steaming where they struck. A fog soon developed. Glad for the overhead awning that bought him a few seconds, Jeremiah turned to go back into the prayer room but came face to mask with Rubber Man. The thing grabbed him by the throat and lifted him off his feet. Fear lanced through him but he remembered his training. He put both hands on the shiny black arm and focused.

Energy course through him and into Rubber Man. The black-clad attacker released him and recoiled in pain. Jeremiah hit the ground and gasped for air. He rolled to his feet and backpedaled toward the commons, staying under the slowly-deteriorating awning. It ran the full length of the interior courtyard but it staying under it restricted his movement. So did the fact that he didn't want to turn his back on Rubber Man.

The creature hesitated, flexing the arm Jeremiah had smitten. Its body language said it was pretty pissed off. Jeremiah kept backing up. Rubber Man crouched like it was ready to lunge then suddenly sprang sideways. It stretched and became one with the shadows. Jeremiah stopped moving. He took a quick look around and, seeing the door to the library, he dove for it. His robe was cumbersome so he shed it as he went then he ducked inside, shutting and locking the door behind himself. He pushed the light switch but nothing happened. He was left in the dark.

He decided maybe the library wasn't such a good idea after all but before he could retreat he was grabbed from behind. One rubber-clad arm went around his midsection, pinning his arms to the side with inhuman strength. Rubber Man's other shiny black hand grabbed his head. It yanked hard to the side, breaking his neck.

... ...

Father Jeremiah woke with a start, covered in sweat. His heart was racing. He turned on the light and looked around the sitting room, confused for a moment by his surroundings. When he identified where he was he flopped back on the couch. It had been years since he had a nightmare so intense. That in itself was unusual. The fact that Michael had recently suffered a severe bad dream as well made the priest suspicious. He reached for the pendant under his shirt. Unlike in the dream, the simple gesture brought him a gentle rush of comfort. But he didn't go back to sleep that night.

...

Tate's bad dream had nothing to do with Rubber Man. It was just another in a long string of disturbing images half-pulled from reality, cranked up a few notches and spat out in the form of a nightmare. He woke in a panic, crying.

"Mama!" he called, confused in his groggy state by his child seeming. "Mama!"

He didn't know what year it was or how much of his existence was memory and how much was nightmare. Dead, alive, now or then. He had no idea what reality was, or what he had done or had just imagined doing. Being unsure of something so basic as reality was a terrifying plummet into a black void. There was nothing to hold onto; nothing to stop the descent into madness.

Then the door opened and Mrs. Nora came in. She drifted across the floor to his bedside and sat down weightlessly.

"There, there, child," she soothed, holding her arms open.

He climbed into her embrace just like he had so many times before. Only this time she felt warm to him. He rested his cheek against her shoulder and tried to think only about how soft and cozy she was. She smelled clean and sweet. He didn't dare close his eyes.

"You're all right now," said Mrs. Nora gently as she smoothed his hair down. "Shall I sing you a lullaby?"

He sniffled as a couple more tears slid out. Then he nodded and wiped them away on her front at once. She didn't mind. She smiled and tipped her head back a little so her own tears wouldn't drip on him. She struggled to recall any of the songs her nanny used to sing to her. It took effort but it paid off. She sang to him softly, rocking slightly as she did.

"_Hush, little baby, don't say a word,__  
__Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird._  
_And if that mockingbird won't sing,_  
_Mama's gonna buy you a diamond ring._  
_And if that diamond ring turns brass,_  
_Mama's gonna buy you a looking glass._  
_And if that looking glass gets broke,_  
_Mama's gonna buy you a billy goat,_  
_And if that billy goat don't pull,_  
_Mama's gonna buy you a cart and bull._  
_And if that cart and bull turn over,_  
_Mama's gonna buy you a dog named Rover._  
_And if that dog named Rover won't bark,_  
_Mama's gonna buy you a horse and cart._  
_And if that horse and cart fall down,_  
_You'll still be the sweetest little baby in town._"

Perhaps it said something about how lost the ghosts had gotten but time meant nothing to either one of them. 2018, 1984, 1926 - dates, ages, appearances had no relevance to the two hurting souls. They found comfort in each other and that was all that mattered.

* * *

Author's Note:

So now you know a little bit more about where Jeremiah comes from. Is it what you expected? Do you think Constance knows her favorite 'priest' is from a cultist compound? His group's semi-inspired by the Branch Davidians and those extremist Mormons Warren Jeffs controlled.

Next chapter's another stupidly long one that I couldn't break up neatly. It's all a flashback from 1993 but it doesn't all take place in one day. It takes two! Stay tuned. Listen to some music from my playlist. Come back later for more.


	6. Chapter 6 - Juvenile Detention

**1993**

Tate was 15. It was 8 o'clock on a Saturday night when the police showed up at the pizza parlor looking for him. He didn't know he was wanted; he was so wrapped up in the arcade game he was playing that didn't even notice the two of them until one spoke to him.

"Tate Langdon?"

He was right in the middle of a good game of _Joust_ and didn't want to lose his chance at high score so he didn't look away from the screen. "What?"

That was confirmation enough for them. The taller guy grabbed Tate's right arm and wrenched it behind his back. The teen shifted quickly through surprise, indignation, confusion, fear and anger but not quickly enough. Before he could protest his other arm was wrenched behind his back.

"What're you doing?" he demanded.

The tall cop snapped cuffs on him. "You were reported as a runaway."

"What?" Tate exclaimed. The cold metal cuffs bit into his wrists uncomfortably. The cop pushed him toward the exit doors. Everyone was staring at him. Several of them went to his school. Great. "I'm not... I didn't run away! Jesus! Do I look run away? Fuck!"

They loaded him into the squad car out front. A couple of curious gossip hounds came out of the restaurant to gawk at him some more. He squirmed around in the seat and brought his hands forward behind his knees. Then he curled up and pulled his legs through so that his arms were no longer trapped behind his back. Since his hands were still in cuffs he used both to flip off the kids who were staring at him. One of the girls pointed at him and laughed while she said something to her friend. Tate sank down in the seat and wished the stupid cops would drive away already.

When they finally got in the car they didn't talk to him. At all. They talked to each other but Tate ignored what they said. He was busy trying to figure out how to escape. There were no door handles in the back of the squad car. A sturdy wall of wire mesh separated him from the front of the car. He knew from watching shows that the windows were shatter-proof. There was no escape. About the time he accepted that fact he realized that they were heading in the opposite direction from where he lived. Were the cops kidnapping him?

"Where are we going?" he asked.

The passenger policeman turned a little in his seat so he could see Tate. "Juvenile detention."

"Juvey?!" he said. "But I'm not a runaway!"

"Your parents said they haven't seen you in two days," said the cop.

Tate didn't believe him. "Then how did you know where I was?"

"They gave us a list of possible locations you might be or might have friends at and we've been going down the list."

Friends. Right. As if. Tate fell back into the curve of the hard seat. "That guy's not my dad," he said angrily. There were so many things he was mad about, he couldn't prioritize them all.

The cop turned back to his partner started talking about filing paperwork on other cases from the day. They ignored him the rest of the way to the detention center and he ignored them. When they got to the facility they passed through a large gate topped with razor wire. Tate thought it looked kind of cool at night, all lit up and authoritative. Then they drove through the dark for a bit until they came to a brightly lit compound of a building.

He was taken out of the squad car by the wide cop and led inside where they made him sit in a folding chair while they processed paperwork. It was getting late; there weren't hardly any people around. Just him, the one cop now and the person working the front desk. Tate alternated between sulking and being curious. There were lots of new things to see and places he thought might be interesting to explore. He would have liked to know what was in the drawers of the desk he was seated next to. But when they seated him the cop had refastened Tate's cuffs behind his back and to the chair so he couldn't go anywhere or do anything. Which made him mad.

Roughly a half hour later the cop turned him over to a really big hairless man in a facility uniform. The bald man obviously worked out. A lot. He was twice the size of Tate and had a 'seen it all' air about him that Tate wasn't sure he wanted to test. So when the handcuffs came off and the man told Tate to follow him, the teenager decided he would.

The guard took him to a staging area where there were several closets and lockers. "We need to get you a change of clothes," the man said. He had a deep voice. He looked at Tate, sizing him by eye. "Gonna be hard. I don't think I have anything small enough to fit you."

Tate looked heavenward. Great. He hoped it would earn him a bad-ass reputation for being the smallest guy to set ever foot in juvenile hall. But he knew most likely it would just get him beat up while he was there.

"I want to call my mother," he said as the man dug around in one of the many closets.

"You can talk to her tomorrow."

The guard brought over a pair of pants that were five sizes too large. "It's drawstring. You can tighten the waist up. Roll the cuffs or you'll be trippin' over them." He looked the teen over again. "Maybe we have somethin' in the lost and found you can use for a shirt. Only ones I got would hang on you like a sheet."

Tate glared at him and took the pants. "Don't I get a phone call?"

"That's prison," the man said. "You're not in prison."

"So I don't get a phone call?"

"That's right."

Tate was outraged. "That should be illegal!"

"It's not. Not when we have parental consent," the man said without pleasure or interest. He'd gone through this dozens of times with other kids. "Which we do, for you."

The guy dug up a plain white t-shirt from the lost and found box. It looked like it had been in there for a long time. It fit Tate but that was hardly comforting. Now he'd be the smallest guy in juvey and the only one in a white shirt as well.

"Can't I just keep my shirt?"

The guard eyed Tate's _Metallica_ t-shirt and shook his head. He didn't bother saying anything. He just waved an arm so the teen would know to follow him then he led the way to the showers. There Tate was subjected to just about every humiliating detention procedure except a body cavity search: He had to strip in front of the guard and then he had to allow the guy to check him for lice - head and genitals. Which may have been better than delousing, as the man said, but still put Tate in a terrible mood.

Next came a shower that never budged past lukewarm. The shampoo and body wash came in little plastic condiment cups with lids that he had to give back to the man. Tate thought it was a ridiculous precaution; he didn't understand the need for such measures. The guard had taken his street clothes and coat away during the shower so Tate had to put on the stupid scrubs and white t-shirt. The only thing he had left of his were his underpants.

Once he was dry and dressed the guard led him down a series of plain white hallways that were interrupted now and then with security doors the man opened by swiping a the badge he wore clipped to his belt. They eventually came to a hall that had lots of narrow doors lining both sides. The guard led him to one of those, swiped his card to open it and motioned for Tate to enter.

The teen peeked through his damp fringe into the tiny room. There was a severe platform of a bunk attached to the wall - little more than a metal shelf with a thin mattress on top. There was a stack of brown blankets and white sheets folded up and set on one end. A steel combination toilet and sink was securely attached to the wall near the foot of the bed. A window with bars on the inside looked out into blackness.

Tate looked up at the burly man beside him. "I thought you said this wasn't prison."

"Get in there," the guard said and gave Tate a push toward the doorway.

Anger surged. Tate turned and shoved the man back. It had the same effect as shoving a wall. The guard wasn't at all intimidated but he was surprised. Few tried to get physical with them and those that did were usually a lot bigger. He grabbed the hotheaded youth by the arm and shoulder and bodily shoved him into the room. He shut the door before Tate could regain his feet and get out. Not that he didn't try. There wasn't a handle on Tate's side of the door though; just a little mesh-fused window and a vent. He kicked the steel door a couple of times but it didn't do anything. It didn't even really make a sound since his feet were bare.

Once his anger burned off Tate was just tired. He went over to the bunk and spread the bedclothes out without actually making the bed. He piled up a nest instead and collapsed in it.

...

The morning sun woke him far too early. The window was large and there were no curtains or blinds. So Tate covered his head and tried to go back to sleep. There was rattling soon after and he peeked out to see a different guard coming in. He wore the same uniform as the guy from last night and had a similar build. The guy delivered a tray of food, which he placed on the edge of the sink since there was no other surface in the room. Then the guard left.

Tate went back to sleep.

When he woke a couple of hours later he inspected the contents of the tray. There was a bowl of Cheerios that had swollen to several times their original size. There was also a misshapen orange and a carton of 1% milk, room temperature now. He dumped the half the cereal down the toilet and half in the sink because he knew it would get caught in the drain. He ignored what was left on the tray.

He wanted to take a piss but the window had no curtains. He could easily see just by glancing that the window overlooked a central courtyard. He could see a guy mowing the grass and, across from that guy and through the big windows in the other building, he could see other teen boys in scrubs passing each other in a hall. He really didn't want to pee where the whole world could look over and see.

In fact he didn't want anyone seeing him at all. He curled up beside the window for a couple of hours, till the sound of the yard machine finally stopped. When he looked out next, the courtyard and the hall across from it were empty. He took the opportunity to use the toilet. Then he said a short prayer that he might not be cursed with any other toilet needs for the rest of the day. After that he went back to sitting by the window.

He sat there till an attendant came and swapped his breakfast tray with a lunch one. By that time Tate was in a very foul mood indeed.

"How long are they gonna keep me here?" he demanded before the guard - a completely different person this time - could leave.

The guy shrugged. "Your parents can come get you anytime they want."

He left.

Tate hugged his knees. His mother was letting him stay in this stupid place? Sure, she'd threatened to let people lock him up before but he hadn't believed her. He felt betrayed. He hadn't even done anything wrong. All he'd done was not go home for one night. Okay, almost two. But he'd been planning to go home, eventually. And the way Constance had been sucking face with Lawrence since they'd moved in with him, Tate didn't think she would notice him gone.

He put his head down on his knees. A couple of hot tears ran down his nose and fell into the folds of the oversized pants he wore. He stayed like that for a few minutes then he got up and looked at the lunch tray. It had some nasty-looking salad on it and what was probably a chicken breast. He grabbed the tray and threw it at the window as hard as he could. It hit the bars. Food went everywhere. The tray clattered harmlessly to the floor.

Tate flopped on the bunk, which kind of hurt because the stupid thing was so hard. Then he buried himself in the blankets. Eventually he heard someone open the door about an hour or so later.

"Oh for-" a man's voice said and the door closed.

A few minutes later the door opened again. Someone came in.

"Get up."

Tate knew the man was talking to him but he didn't move.

A hand shook him roughly. "Get UP."

The teen shoved the blankets aside, blond hair puffing up with static. He was surprised to see three people. They were all wearing dark blue uniforms. One was cleaning up the lunch mess and another one - the one who'd been talking to him - was beside him. A third in the hall was eyeing Tate like he thought the teenager might do something.

Tate got off the bunk and the guard nearest him grabbed his arm. He was escorted out of the room and into another just like it across the hall. The guy who was already in the corridor followed along as backup. It was kind of funny how serious they both were.

"You guys sure don't like seeing food wasted," Tate grinned.

Nobody else thought it was funny. They just locked him in the new cell.

...

"Are you sure you want him released?" Mr. McManus, the director of the juvenile detention facility, asked Constance for the third time. He was a skinny balding man in his late 40s and he was justifiably concerned.

"I'm sure," the blonde woman said firmly. She wanted a cigarette.

"It's just that- Mrs. Langdon, your son seems to have issues controlling his temper," said the director. "He attacked a guard last night and today he refused food by trying to throw it through a window."

Constance lifted her chin. "I'm sure he's just angry about bein' held here. My boy is a sweet child. I only had you keep him here to teach him the dangers of runnin' away. I'm sure he'll never do it again."

Mr. McManus wasn't so sure. "Well, at the very least you should consider taking him to a psychologist."

"I'll take that under advisement," she said with a 'go to hell' smile.

He filled out the release forms and passed them over for her to sign. She signed where necessary and handed them back. He collected the papers and carried them out of the room. Several minutes passed before he returned.

"Mrs. Langdon? He's ready."

They were reunited in the main lobby where Tate met her with a dark look of hurt betrayal. She hugged him but he didn't hug her back.

"You left me here," he accused when she released him.

"Come on, sweetheart," she said, maintaining a smile as she ushered him toward the door. "We'll talk about it at home."

He wanted to talk immediately but he also understood the conversation wasn't necessarily one to have where big mean men could stuff him in another tiny room. So he followed her to the car in silence.

"Why did you just leave me there?" he demanded once they were off the detention center property.

"Why didn't you come home the other night?" she shot back. She only left him a few seconds to think about it before she tore into him in earnest. "Do you know how scared I was? I had no idea where you were or what happened! For all I knew you could have been lyin' dead in some gutter somewhere!"

Tate rolled his eyes and looked out the car window. The sun was setting. He was hungry but he wasn't going to tell her that. She'd just use it against him.

"You didn't know where I was but the cops sure found me easy enough," he muttered.

"I won't have you runnin' off on me!" his mother exclaimed, slapping the steering wheel. "Do I have to chain you up like your brother?"

Tate looked at her then, wounded and a little scared. "No."

After the stay in juvenile hall, he had new appreciation for her threats. She already had one son tethered in the attic. He knew Larry would help her keep another one too. He chewed his thumbnail.

"You know what?" she said, smiling in a way that always meant she was super mad and trying not to cry. "Do you know what that man said?" She glanced at him to make sure he was paying attention. He was. "He wanted to keep you there! He wanted me to leave you there for good!"

Tate looked back out the car window but he was sulking now, trying not to cry himself.

"That's right," she said in a superior tone. "But I refused. I don't_ want_ them to lock you up, Tate. But they'll do it."

She pulled the car over to the side of the road and put it in park. She unfastened her seatbelt then and leaned across the bench seat so she could reach him. She took him by the chin and turned his head so he was facing her.

"Don't you _ever_," there was deadly emphasis on that last word. "Run away from me again. Do you hear me?"

He looked at her miserably. "I won't, mama."

Her expression relaxed a little. She stroked his cheek where her fingernails had dug into his skin. "I love you, Tate," her voice was sweet and soft now, full of emotion. "My heart would break to pieces if anythin' ever happened to you."

"But I didn't run away, mama," he said plaintively. "I was just playing video games. I didn't think you'd care."

"Of course I care!" she exclaimed. She moved back to her side of the car. "Jesus H. Christ, I made you! Of course I care about what happens to you! You are my son!"

"You love Larry better."

She stared at him. "Is that what all of this is about? Him?"

Tate didn't answer. He didn't have to.

"You're jealous. Of him." She gave a short, bitter laugh. "Honey, you're so smart sometimes I forget just how young and naive you are."

He frowned at her.

"Tate," she said, looking at him seriously. "I will always love you best."

"Then why did you leave me in that stupid place?" he said.

"To show you what life is like without me."

She could tell that registered. She started the car. They didn't speak again the whole car ride back home.

**...**

* * *

Author's Note:

Yeah that got stupendously long. But I couldn't ruin the flow by cutting it up. Sorry if it took you a bit to get through it all. I know this whole fic is a looong read so I give you props for sticking with me. I wasn't kidding when I said I had enough material for a whole season.

McManus, for the record, is the name of the guy in charge of Em City in the Oswald Maximum Security prison, in HBO's cool show _Oz_. I won't lie. It's the same character. I just borrowed him for my story.

I'm am stoked for Coven. I've scattered some witch-y references over the past episodes in deference to the coming season... did you catch them? If not, don't go re-reading to find them. Wait till Season 1.5 is done. Then I'd suggest you re-watch Season 1, _then_ re-read. Not only will you spot the Coven nods but you'll probably see a whole lot of other stuff you didn't before too - in the fic and the show.

As ever, I appreciate the reviews. I'm also very suggestible so if there's something you'd like to see or see more of, please let me know. This thing is still in progress and is slated for 6 more episodes. The next one's finished and the 8th is in production but the house is still wide open for exploration.


	7. Chapter 7 - Educational Projects

**2011**

Violet sighed and sagged at her desk in her room, one hand propping her head as she looked forlornly at the school assignment. She felt completely uninspired by the topic and it was due in two days. Technically she'd had the weekend to work on it but she hadn't felt like it. She couldn't procrastinate any longer.

"Whatcha doing?" Tate said from the open doorway.

She turned in her chair to look at him. She'd closed the door when she came in earlier; she hadn't heard him open it. Yet there he was. "Hey. I didn't know you were seeing my dad today."

"Yeah," he shrugged as best he could without taking his hands out of his pockets. "Can I come in?"

"Sure," she smiled. "I could use a distraction."

"I'm really good at being distracting," Tate grinned, dimples showing. He came over to where she was sitting and picked up the stapled packet of papers she'd been looking at. "What is this?"

"Literature report. I have to make something that represents the book I was just reading," she said.

He skimmed through the requirements then dropped the assignment on her desk again. "Why so gloomy? Seems easy."

"The book I read was about cemeteries," said Violet. "How do I make that?"

Tate picked at his thumbnail and thought. "Do a diorama? You could splice some of the cooler places together or whatever. Like one big Disneyland of a cemetery, only with no freaky people in fur suits."

She laughed. "I'm definitely not having fur suits in my project." She got more serious then. "A diorama would be cool but there's no way I can make one in time. It's due in two days."

"I'll help you."

Violet smiled self-consciously. "That's cheating."

"So?" Tate shrugged. "What do you care? It's not like your teacher'll know you didn't do it all yourself." He paused. "You have to write an essay too?"

She nodded. "Only two pages though."

He smiled. "That's cake. You do that part since you read the book. Do you have any clay? And maybe, like, a big piece of cardboard? And some paint."

Violet glanced around. "I'll go ask my mom. She's the one who has all the craft project junk."

"Okay," said Tate. "You should draw a sketch of what you want it to look like though. I don't know much about cemeteries. Just the ones in New Orleans."

"Cool." Violet got up and started out into the hall then she paused, hanging onto the door frame to look back in at the boy in the yellow striped sweater. She smiled at him. "Thanks."

...

Once they had the supplies they took everything down to the basement so they could work without as much risk of her parents finding them together. A large piece of Styrofoam served as a base. They rolled up their sleeves and spray painted the whole thing in greens and grays and browns. Then they spent the next few hours sculpting a hoard of tiny headstones and crypts from the modeling clay.

When it was getting late they agreed to meet again the next evening to finish it. They kissed goodbye at the back porch and Violet ran off to go get ready for bed. She hadn't been so pumped up about a school assignment in years. Tate watched her leave then willed himself back to the basement. He felt so good and full of warmth inside that he wanted to do something for Violet to let her know how much he appreciated how she made him feel.

The next morning before Violet left for class she ducked down to the basement to get a fresh peek at what they'd made the previous evening. She spotted a new addition in the far left quadrant: A little crypt with a sharply slanted roof. On one side in elegant funerary script it read, 'Violet' and on the other, in matching script, 'Tate'.

She brushed a fingertip over the peaked roof of the tomb and a tiny smile tugged her lips. Then she heard her mother calling her and she had to leave for school. In the shadows, Tate smiled and hugged himself happily.

**...**

**2018**

"So you've gone from not caring to being impossible to please," Chad said.

Tate was on the couch in the living room - partially. His upper half was hanging off of it, which meant he was having the discussion upside down. It bothered Chad but he'd refrained from nagging. He really wanted to get things done which meant focusing, not correcting posture. Patrick was over on the other end of the sofa idly flipping through the cake catalog Chad had brought along with his other implements of party planning.

"I'm not being impossible. I just don't want..." Tate held up a hand to tick off the reasons on his fingers. "Pink. Disney. Cliché. Embarrassing. Or anything too babyish."

"Just tell me what you do want," said Chad, exasperated. "That would be a _whole_ lot easier, Tate. I can't read your upside-down little mind."

Tate raked his fingers through his hair. "I don't care. Just... Black. There. I picked."

Chad looked crucified. "Black is _not_ a party theme."

"It is for funerals and graduations," Tate pointed out.

"And over the hill," said Pat. He didn't look up from the catalog so he didn't have to acknowledge the 'you're not helping' glare that Chad sent his way.

"See?" said Tate with a triumphant smile. "I win. My theme is black. Can we have a black cake?"

Chad sighed in disgust and sat down in one of the wingback chairs. "That's going to look _really_ nice. Welcome to the Addams Family birthday party, Michael. Have some death cake."

Tate finally righted himself and flopped into the niche where the arm of the couch met the back. His hair was a mess. "He won't care. He'll probably like it."

"You're right," said Chad, eyeing the mess atop the boy's head. "Bad taste does seem to run in your family. What about black and white instead?"

"No," Tate frowned. "No penguins or tuxedos or anything like that."

Chad looked indignant. "Give me a _little_ credit. I was thinking white for contrast so the black looks purposeful instead of chosen by the blind. But far be it from me to ruin your attempt at true tastelessness. Your mother will know for a fact you didn't have my help then."

Tate grimaced and glanced over at Patrick but he was still pretending to be absorbed in the catalog he was holding. "I guess you could use a little white," Tate relented. "But just a little."

"Oh, you're too kind," said Chad, words dripping sarcasm. And just like that he was done and moving on to the next item on the agenda. "All right. Guest list."

"Why do we even need invitations?" asked Tate as he sank into a slouched sprawl. "Everybody who's invited is either already here or they're next door."

"It's the principal of the thing," explained Chad. "It's a party. You have invitations. It's so everyone knows who's supposed to be there and who's a gate crasher."

Patrick gave a short snicker.

"What?" Chad demanded.

Pat shook his head and kept his eyes on the catalog. "I seriously doubt you're going to have to worry about gate crashers at Tate's party."

"It's the _principal_," said Chad emphatically.

"Okay," Tate said. "Whatever. I want to invite mama and Michael and that priest guy, I guess, but not that stupid psychic bitch. And I want to invite Doctor Harmon."

Patrick lowered the catalog and looked at the boy.

"I already told him about it," Tate defended. "I can't un-invite him."

Pat's expression soured and he made a non-committal grunt. He lifted the catalog again.

"What about the Harvey girls?" asked Chad.

Tate looked at him blankly. "What about them?"

"Do you want to invite them?"

"Why?" asked Tate.

"I don't know. To be _nice_?" said Chad. "I bet those girls haven't had a decent piece of cake since before they died."

Tate made a face. "Do I have to invite them?"

"Yes," said Chad, since Tate handed him the decision-making reins. "It'd be a nice gesture and it'll feel more like a birthday party."

"But what about how they look?" said Tate. "They can't show up all burnt. They'll freak out Michael and the priest."

"I'll make sure their mother understands how important appearances are," assured Chad. He jotted a few things down in his planner notebook. "Okay. I need to find a recipe for a black cake that isn't too disgusting. I'm going to have to hit the internet for this. I know there isn't anything in _my_ books that'll do. Tate, there's a couple of catalogs there on the coffee table with decorations. Mark your suggestions with the pen that's tucked in the first one."

He left with his planner then to go hunt down one of the laptops. Tate looked over at Patrick, who was still perusing the cake catalog. Wondering what was so engaging, the boy moved down to that end of the couch and craned his neck to look. All he saw was a spread of boring, fancy cakes.

"How can you pretend to be interested in that shit for so long?" he asked.

Patrick looked at him sidelong. "Who says I'm pretending?"

Tate looked at the catalog again. "You like this stuff?" He grinned, dimples showing. "Now I know what to get you for Christmas: Cake catalogs. I can get those in spades."

"And I can get you that Chia head you've been admiring," said Patrick, turning the page.

"Ooh, that's... that hurts, man," Tate said, clutching his chest. "I'd get you a Clapper but I'm saving that for Chad."

"Uh-uh," said Patrick. "If you really want to see the vein in his head throb, get him a clip-on tie."

"A clip-on?" Tate laughed, imagining. "I totally should."

"His mother used to make him wear clip-ons to Sunday school," said Pat. "He avoids them like most people avoid rotten dead things."

"Sunday school. Ugh." Tate shoved his way under Patrick's nearest arm and used the man's thigh as a pillow. "My mom tried that a couple of times. I hated it. They wouldn't let you ask questions."

Patrick tried to keep looking through the catalog but the head in his lap made it difficult to turn the pages. "What would you want to ask in Sunday school?"

Tate shrugged and picked at the cuticle of his thumb. "Well, like, if the titans in the Greek myths were the same as the giants that the Israelites booted out of the Promised Land."

"You asked that in Sunday school?" asked Pat. He set the catalog on the arm of the couch since he couldn't look at it.

"Not in those exact words but... basically, yeah," said Tate. With the catalog out of the way, he spread out a little more. "Churches are bullshit," he said once he'd settled. Then: "Did you go to church?"

Patrick shrugged. "When I was a kid, yeah. Off and on. More around the holidays. A lot less in the summer. Dad was more rigid about it than mom. As soon as I was on my own though... I've only been back in churches for weddings and funerals."

"Yeah, I guess most churches wouldn't really want a gay guy, huh?"

"There are plenty of gay churches around LA." Pat shrugged one shoulder. "Around the world, even. I just never really believed any of that religious stuff. Now? I have no idea what I believe. I don't know if I'm being punished by God or if things are the way they are because there never was a God to begin with."

The conversation lapsed then as they both sank into their own thoughts. After a few moments Tate stirred and lifted Patrick's nearest hand. He put his own in the center of it and looked at the difference in sizes. It was considerable given that he was in his child form.

"Everybody always worries about the end of the world," Tate said after a bit. He set Pat's arm down over his chest and folded his arms loosely over it. "Wouldn't it be funny if the final war already happened... God lost... And that's why the world's so fucked up?" Tears filled his eyes so he didn't blink. Sometimes it made them go away.

"The world's always been fucked up," said Patrick. "It just keeps reinventing old ways to make you think they're new."

Tate thought about that. "I guess so," he admitted after a bit. Then he laughed softly. A tear leaked out and he rubbed it away thoughtlessly with the shoulder of his sweater. "The Romans still got everybody beat where it comes to fucked up society."

"I wouldn't mind being a Roman back in the day," said Pat. "Those gladiator games were something."

"God, Pat," grinned Tate. "Talk about your stereotypes."

"Hey," said Patrick. "My liking the games has nothing to do with sexual preference. Do you know anything about them?"

"Yeah," said Tate, still grinning broadly. "More than enough to stand by my stereotype statement."

Patrick snorted. "Just because you can't think of wrestling without getting ideas doesn't mean the whole world has that problem."

Tate propped himself up on his elbows a little. "The Uffizi Wrestlers."

Pat's brows arched a little. He tried to keep a straight face but his lips pursed with the effort of trying not to smile.

"Ha!" crowed Tate. "You know it!"

"You can't point to that-"

"It's Roman, isn't it?" challenged Tate.

Patrick's attempt at stifling his smile failed. "Well. Yeah, but-"

"No buts," said Tate. He settled back down and looked smug. "That statue is _gay_. It totally proves my point and you know it."

Patrick rolled his eyes but he was smiling. It was pretty funny. "It doesn't prove anything. I like wrestling and MMA because of the athletic prowess and competition involved. "

"...And I bet you like that statue too."

"...Says the guy who knows it by name," volleyed Patrick.

"I just know art," Tate said. "Especially naked art. I used to look for it at the library downtown. It was amazingly easy to find."

"Uh-huh," said Pat, poking him in the ribs a couple of times to make him wiggle. "And I know it from wrestling. Face it. It's a well-known statue."

"Okay," Tate smiled. "So the whole world's a bunch of perverts. That's like saying the sky's blue. Doesn't change the fact that you're a stereotype. Tomorrow's market demographic."

"When corporate firms start marketing to dead gay jocks," said Patrick. "I'll worry about being a stereotype."

...

**Late that night...**

When Rubber Man returned to the property next door he discovered Constance's secret when he oriented on her dreams. He could tell the difference between the dreams of the living and those of the dead and he knew immediately what that she was no longer of the living.

He delved into her dreams but only made brief contact with her subconscious before he was shut out. She didn't wake but she wasn't completely defenseless either. Rubber Man pried but her mind was locked tight in ways he'd never encountered. She stirred restlessly, trapped under sedation but somehow fighting the effects without being consciously aware of them. He retreated. Despite failing in his mission, he had learned quite a bit.

**xxx**

* * *

Author's Note:

So whaddaya know? After all that bleak stuff I actually gave you a happy ending. Right? Wasn't that a happy ending? I know I smiled here and there.

But if you've been reading with me since the start you should know by now what it means when I give you a nice big kiss like that, right? It's means I'm about to be really mean. So get your tissue boxes and bandages ready... Next chapter is: **American Horror Story 1.5, ****episode 7: Boys Don't Cry**.

This episode scored another Bram Stoker on I Write Like... I'm guessing all the sex and blood is what keeps doing it. Hard to say though.

By the way, the Statue of Uffizi is a famous statue that's supposedly renowned for representing martial prowess. I've seen the statue. It just looks gay to me. But then when I see the Statue of David, I also see gay. Especially in that really big one in Las Vegas. One can't help but stare at anatomy that big. Can you imagine having to carve it?

All right. Tune in next time. It's the last episode before the 2-episode mid-season finale.


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